


Todeskuß

by Marquesate



Series: Break this bittersweet spell on me [2]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-22
Updated: 2005-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquesate/pseuds/Marquesate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard couldn't do it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Todeskuß

Richard was standing behind the pillar. Leaning with his back against he cool stone, one hand in his pocket and taking a deep drag from the cigarette. All of the concerts throughout the tour had been brilliant so far, he couldn’t even remember the last time the crowds had reacted with such unanimous hysterics. Especially Todeskuß was a success that was going beyond and above anything they had ever written and performed before.

He knew it was sheer brilliance, but he also knew the reason why.

He couldn't do it anymore. Each night on stage was like sharp blades cutting into his bowels, twisting and slicing upwards to skewer his heart. It hurt like a motherfucker. Even the booze wouldn't help and the fags had become stale, the first as well as the last one scratching across his throat.

He couldn't do it anymore.

Richard threw the half-smoke cigarette onto the gravel before him, half-heartedly twisting his booted foot on the stub until it had been grounded slowly into the dust.

He liked the darkness, it provided craved-for anonymity. What a joke, really, he'd always wanted to be someone; famous, revered and wanted, but now that he had all of that he felt caught by the strain and was bowing to the pressure in more ways than just the constant worry about aging. What was it he had said to Till on that godamned Friday night?

' _Together we are Rammstein, on our own we are just two fucked-up men_.'

Richard huffed, shaking his head while fishing for the cigarette packet. It couldn't be any more ironic. He thought he could handle all of it when he had left Till that night, but the knowledge of denial and the hunger had just grown. Knowing that it wasn't just him anymore, but that Till's awareness was as fucking acute as his own, had made it unbearable.

That night he had been so sure. Arrogantly convinced that he was doing the right thing, leaving and only to return as part of the band. No more, no less. Richard Z. Kruspe the guitarist. Till Lindemann the singer. Two parts of the six-part whole.

Richard stopped in mid-movement, his thoughts interrupted by the sound of footsteps that were coming closer. He stood immobile, hardly daring to breath until the person had to be so close then using the pretence of lighting another cig to hide his face.

He wouldn't be able to deal with being recognised tonight.

Seventeen concerts already, in goodness how many countries, too many more to go. He had lost track and he couldn’t face it anymore. The prospect of once more going out on stage and playing that song - this damned song - was making him physically sick. It was too much to bear; playing out the pain, loss and longing almost every night in another city, sounding genuine and being genuine. Yet another irony. The problem was that he couldn't be anything but genuine.

The footsteps were passing, neither quickening nor slowing and Richard breathed in relief. Didn't seem that anyone was interested in the lonely figure in the dark tonight. Seemed what they said about France and the French lax attitude was right. No one cared. Not here, right at the Seine, staring into the water. Paris, city of love? Bullshit. City of thankful anonymity tonight. Just one night. It was all he needed. This night, then go back in and face the band tomorrow, telling them that he couldn't do it anymore and that he didn't care what they were going to say, no matter that he had written that song in the first place.

He'd have to face Till, too. Him first and foremost and the worst of all was that Till knew why Richard was not able to play that song again. His own work, how pathetic, but he was unable to perform it another time.

Richard fumbled with the cigarette, almost burning his fingers, too lost in thoughts. He was worried, knew damn well how unprofessional it would be, what it would do to the band if he refused to play their currently most successful song. Couldn't be helped. He thought he could do it but he had been wrong. Under-estimating himself again. If he played Todeskuß again he would be sick on stage or, worse, would let go of the emotions he felt, breaking down in front of thousands. He couldn't allow himself to lose the stoic mask. It would be disastrous.

Richard was so preoccupied with this thoughts that he neglected another instance of slowly approaching footsteps, until he suddenly heard the all too familiar voice.

"Seems that the darkness finds her children." Till spoke low as he emerged from the thicker darkness that had shrouded the water's edge. "By scent, by sight or by sound?"

Taking a step towards the iron grill, he rested one large hand on one of the spikes, slowly curling his fingers around the metal. Richard could not hep but stare at the deliberate movement, lost in a trance.

Lost, yes. So lost.

"Richard?" One word. His name. The question gently quiet. So much unlike Till, and yet unsurprising.

Richard finally lifted his eyes, tilting his head. Realising he sounded defeated, but couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. Suddenly the need for anonymity and his resolve to talk to the band had vanished. He didn't care how, because he knew why.

"I should have known you'd find me here, Till."

They stood in silence, neither man willing to talk. Too dangerous to destroy the balance of stalemate or they might be forced to break away, to make excuses and once again drift back into the world to remain locked into their loneliness.

Till finally stepped forwards and into the darkness of the pillar, causing Richard to once again touch the cool stone with his back. He knew what was coming; dreaded it and despised it but was unable not to desire it more than anything. Contact.

Painfully cruel was that which should not be.

It was dark at the bank of the Seine. Paris was asleep, except for those who sought the safety of darkness. Men or women, the night made no difference. Daylight would come soon enough, forcing them all to face their angels and demons.

The few citoyens who were walking their dogs before the breaking of dawn did not care to look twice towards that pillar, where two shadows had become one.


End file.
